


Tired.

by whisper57



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: First Kiss, Hamburg Era, M/M, Pining, the other guys are there too but i don't care about them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:26:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisper57/pseuds/whisper57
Summary: John is tired and pining. That's it.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 17
Kudos: 84





	Tired.

John's tired.

It's the only thought in his head. How utterly, completely, terribly tired he is. He doesn't know how long they performed tonight (or is it last night?), he doesn't know what they performed, he doesn't know how many _prellies_ are in his body currently, or how much alcohol for that matter. Maybe this is the coming down from a high, but then again, this isn't his first time being high (the thought would be laughable if he had the energy to laugh) and he knows that any number of drugs leaving his body have never made him want to cry for days or just crawl into his bed and not leave for days, or months, or a year. 

But it isn't just being tired: he knows what just being tired feels like too. There's this sadness and hopelessness that has settled into his bones. He could feel it, earlier today, when he was watching a certain _someone_ flirting with a barmaid or a visitor at the club or fucking Brigitte Bardot for all he cares (It wasn't him, that's all he knows), and felt this overwhelming feeling of resignation arising somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. It was this thought, just one line really, that flashed in his mind and then started playing on a loop in his head: _it's never going to be me._ That stupid, ugly, awful, _awful_ thought had opened the floodgates and several others followed: _he'll never see me this way. he'll never want me. he'll never want me unless i change the most basic part of me. but maybe not even then: who'd want John Lennon for a lover when they could just... not?_ A fleeting image of Cyn flashed before him too, but by that point he was already in full Self-Pity Mode and didn't want to make a list of all the people that loved him. Or claimed to do so, anyway. 

So now John's here: trudging back to the cinema with eyes fixed on the movement of his feet, his entire body completely exhausted, and the rest of him (heart, mind, whatever) deeply depressed and drowning in his insecure feelings. A typical John Lennon affair, except that he hasn't said a word since they stopped singing (if it can be called that with how raw their voices were by the end) and has only replied with head shakes and nods. Or maybe not even that. Despite his inner turmoil, he's well aware of the confused glances that were thrown his way by Pete, George and Stu and that silent conversation ( _'what's up with him?' 'who knows? it's John'_ ) they'd had with their eyes when John hadn't been his usual eccentric, crazy, wild self back at the club. He kind of wants to tell them to fuck off, to mind their own business, but again: he doesn't have the energy to.

And then there's Mr. Paul McCharmly himself.

John wishes, so much, that his mood were severe enough to make him not notice Paul, to make him blind to Paul and his presence, but no such luck. John thinks that even if he were in a coma, he'd still know if Paul was somewhere nearby. The thought causes him to crack a wry smile, and then wonder if Paul would come visit him if he was in a coma. He frowns and his tired, sad mind is about to delve into that line of thought when Paul's leather jacket clad arm brushes against his.

The universe hates him. If his parents' abandonment of him as a child, and the deaths of his uncle and mother, weren't enough to convince him of that fact, Paul walking alongside him _right now_ is. 

Because, really? Paul had to walk with him, so close he can feel his fucking body heat, today of all days? Today, when he's the only reason that John is feeling as miserable as he is? What's his problem? How hard would it be to walk with the rest of the band, quite a few paces ahead of John, and leave John to wallow in his misery? John wants to scream, really, really _scream_. As it is, he swallows down the sudden lump in his throat. God, if this were anyone else, John would have torn them apart by making fun of how pathetically _soft_ they were. He wants to die. He wants the ground to swallow him whole. He wants to be back at home with his cats and an Elvis record playing on full volume in his room. 

All his feelings aside, he _has_ thought about the fact that that flirting (that fucking flirting that John had seen) or all the subsequent ones at the club (because it's Paul McCartney we're talking about here), clearly didn't lead anywhere if Paul is here with him now. _With him_. John mentally scoffs: _if only._ But he _is_ here, though. A little too much than he normally is. His arm is constantly brushing John's as they walk. (a fact that John is trying to, completely unsuccessfully, ignore) And he has already mentioned the body heat. 

If John weren't a self-loathing fuck, if he were a moderately mentally healthy person who valued his own sanity, he'd move away. But since he _is_ a self-loathing fuck, and since he isn't healthy in any way whatsoever, he doesn't do that. Instead, he-always pathetically desperate for any kind of touching with Paul- fucking _leans into the touch_. 

If the universe doesn't hate him, John certainly does hate himself. 

But since we are talking about the people who hate John, Paul certainly does too, because he doesn't move away. He isn't moving away. Does he have no shame? Doesn't he know what he's doing to John? Or maybe he does know, and is inflicting this torture on purpose. Sadistic bastard. John wants to kiss him and never stop. 

Finally tired of his shoes, John raises his head, and though it shouldn't be surprising in the least, John is momentarily taken aback by the fact that the sun is shining. They're close to the cinema and Pete, George and Stu are talking about something or the other, and are still quite ahead of them. It's disorientating, is what it is. For the entire duration of their way back, John had been lost in his own world of torturous, sad thoughts and Paul's presence next to him. Now he feels like he just stepped into the real world, one with other people in it too. John blinks and looks to his side (looks at Paul) and he immediately regrets it. He regrets it because it's like Paul sensed what he was about to do and did the exact same. All John can manage is a few seconds of looking at Paul's face backlit by the early morning sun, his pupils blown wide, his hair a mess (but still perfect) and the soft, affectionate ( _affectionate?_ John really is tired) smile he directs at John, before John ducks his head again. His heart is beating too loudly in his chest and his skin feels too tight, and he doesn't know what to do with himself and-

Oh. 

Paul's fingers brush against John's and John falters in his step. It's that much of a shock to his fried brain, and he would've blamed that lovely sensation of Paul's fingers touching his own, completely on his brain too, if it didn't happen a second time. And so, being the lovesick fool that he is, John reciprocates. Softly, so softly, he grazes the skin of Paul's hand with his fingers too. Once, twice. Then, Paul's pinky finger curls slightly around his own and John's heart soars. He dares to look up at Paul to find him already staring at him and when he can't do anything but stare at him, Paul smiles that soft tiny smile again and John smiles a little too, before ducking his head again.

But then Paul is pulling away from him and John frowns and looks up to see that they've reached their destination. The rest of the guys are waiting at the entrance for them and Paul _now_ moves to join them and enter before John. John stops for a moment before entering: that feeling of bone-deep sadness that Paul's touch had made a little better, now again returning in full-force. He hates, hates, _hates,_ everything and everyone. It's with that thought that he enters their room. Paul has the audacity to smile at him again before climbing onto his bunk bed and lying down, groaning about how tired he is, and the guys murmur vague replies.

John doesn't care, he hates himself so much now it's choking him and there's this darkness taking over his entire being, overwhelming him. He strips down to his boxers and flops down into bed, with his back to the whole room and squeezes his eyes shut. He hates Paul: hates him for smiling at him, hates him for brushing his hand against John's, and hates him for sleeping in his own bed and not allowing John to fall asleep on his chest, with his heartbeat in John's ear. John hates Paul for being Paul and making John love him like this.

He's thinking about what it'd be like to sleep next to Paul when sleep finally takes him.

* * *

John wakes up with bright sunshine on his face and realises that it must be somewhere in the late afternoon. He also realises that he no longer feels like all his emotions will choke him, so that’s nice. He feels normal. That’s not to say that that feeling of longing in him has left: he doesn’t think he’ll ever be free of it. But at least, it’s bearable now and that’s something John can live with, _has_ to live with. So yeah, _normal_.

The next thing he notices is that there’s someone sitting on the edge of his bed. John really, really wishes that he didn’t know who it was: really wishes that he could think that it was George or Pete or Stu, or even Koschmider for fuck’s sake. He remembers thinking about comas and still recognising people and knows it’s completely useless to pretend. So he doesn’t.

Albeit belatedly, he realises that Paul is trying to wake him up and has called his name several times now. He hums to let him know that he’s awake but doesn’t roll over or open his eyes. Paul lets out an exasperated breath, but to John it seems like it’s fond. John thinks it’s finally time that he checks in at a mental hospital.

“Come on, John! Wake up. I’m hungry. Everyone has already left to get something to eat and I told them I’ll bring you with me. Now get up, you lazy sod!”

That gets out a dry _Yes, Mimi_ out of him and Paul starts poking him in the back, forcing him to roll over to stop the assault. He opens his eyes, only to glare at Paul, and finds him looking pleased as punch. John’s traitorous, traitorous brain can’t help noticing how the expression suits him. But then again, what _doesn’t_ suit Paul McCartney?

Apparently, Paul isn’t done annoying him and starts trying to tickle him, or pinching him, or whatever. The point is that his hands are everywhere at once and despite his best efforts, John laughs. He tries to catch his hands to make him stop and after a lot of tries, John finally succeeds. He holds both of Paul’s wrists in his hands and grins up at Paul victoriously, only to find him looking at their hands and then he looks up at John.

Only now does John notice the kind of position they are in: they’re all alone in a room, and John’s on his back with Paul leaning over him slightly. Oh and also, he’s _holding Paul’s hands._ A distant part of his brain that isn’t completely frozen (a very small part) does take this once in a lifetime opportunity to feel how soft Paul’s hands are. He wants these hands on his body, on every inch of his skin… and that is _not_ how he should be thinking right now.

John glances down at their hands too, and moves them down a little so that they’re resting lightly over his chest. When he looks up at Paul and their eyes meet, John swallows and sees Paul notice the movement with the kind of attention he only reserves for his guitar, or anything related to music in general. Their gazes meet again, John’s breath catches and he bites his lip. He suddenly loses all his strength and lets go of Paul’s hands.

He’s calm, very calm suddenly and wants to see what happens next. Something is different in him today, and he’s not the least bit inclined to avert his gaze or make a joke. He’ll wait and wait and wait. He wants to see what Paul will do: Paul who is staring at him with a somewhat panicked, yet anticipatory (?) look in his eyes. Suddenly, John sees a kind of determination take over his features. He barely has a few seconds to wonder what it means that Paul is closing the distance between them.

_Paul is closing the distance between them_. Paul _closed_ the distance between them. His mouth is on John’s mouth. _HIs mouth is on John’s mouth_. He’s _kissing John_. Kissing _him_. _Kissing_ John.

Processing that kind of dangerous input leads to John’s brain freezing completely. Even the distant parts in it that notice how soft Paul’s hands are. Subsequently, his entire body has stopped working too and he only realises that fact when he feels Paul pulling away. John’s brain finally starts working again and he frowns when he looks at Paul’s expression. It only takes a second to understand that Paul thinks he doesn’t want this: _that John’s rejecting Paul._

He mentally scoffs at the notion before curling his hand around a dejected looking Paul’s neck and pulls him back again to kiss him. God, does he kiss Paul. He kisses him and kisses him for all the times that he didn’t get to: wasn’t _allowed_ to. He moans when Paul’s tongue finally enters his mouth and curls around his own, and feels Paul smile. Cheeky bastard. John’s hand finds it way to Paul’s perfect hair and scrapes his nails against his scalp. Paul groans. John smiles.

When they finally pull apart, the object of John’s affections looks breathless and dazed and _happy_. John supposes he doesn’t look much different. He also doesn’t give a fuck about his state. He’s about to move in for another kiss when Paul’s stomach growls. John looks at him and sees his entire face turning red. It’s an adorable sight. John makes a mental note of teasing him about it mercilessly in the foreseeable future.

“I was serious when I said I’m hungry, you know,” says Paul.

John only smirks and hums.

Paul throws a pillow at him and goes to the door, but not before stealing another kiss that has John’s heart momentarily stopping. Paul looks over his shoulder when he reaches the door and raises an eyebrow at him: _Coming?_

John, of course, gets up and follows.

**Author's Note:**

> a shamelessly self-indulgent fic i wrote when i really should've been sleeping. so. yep.


End file.
